


Best birthday ever

by NovaNara



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angelo's, Because it's me, Birthday, Birthday Presents, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Otters, bit of angst, or peck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 10:38:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6002746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaNara/pseuds/NovaNara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gift for tumblr user itsjohnlock. About Sherlock's birthday post- ASIB Christmas. As much fluff as I could manage. Hope you like it, my dear!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best birthday ever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [itsjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=itsjohnlock).



> Disclaimer: I do not own a thing. A.N. This is not a celebration of Valentine’s day, but of a much more important occasion: tumblr user itsjohnlock (who you might know even as the totally awesome shitpostingholmes)’s birthday. Happy birthday, my dear! Thank you for making my days brighter. I do hope you’ll like this – I’m never been as nervous posting something, honestly.

Sherlock had never liked much his own birthday. Which might seem odd, but a birthday only meant being one year older, and being older meant that he was that much closer to being grownup. And he knew what being grownup meant – he had the example under his eyes every day.

Contrarily to what you might think, it was not mummy (who was mostly absorbed in her calculations, whenever she wasn’t busy with whatever mummies did to run the family smoothly).

And it wasn’t even daddy, which his second son liked a lot and actually wouldn’t mind to resemble, if only daddy wasn’t so very kind (way too much for the boy to ever become entirely like him).

No, being grownup meant being like Mycroft. Smarter, and polite, and well-liked by both peers and strangers (because he knew how to manipulate them – when and how not to be himself), reliable, and whatever else you can add. 

Well, Sherlock didn’t want to be Mycroft – no matter how old he became, or how many times his brother repeated that it was time to graduate from his ‘shenaningans’. He was going to forge his own path, instead of following one opened for him. World’s only consulting detective – _not_ Mycroft’s lackey. Sure, he might have some flaws. But at least he didn’t ‘taste-test’ other people’s birthday cakes before the party (to be fair, that had been only the once – Sherlock was three, and Mycroft ten – but he’d never forgotten it).   

The result of that – and of some other best-forgotten birthdays, with long lists that were not birthday gift lists (and once again involved Mycroft) – was that the consulting detective would have been very happy if he’d been allowed to forget his natal day. Not even the prospect to cajole some juicy organ from Molly as a gift could make him want to disclose it (the pathologist would no doubt insist to celebrate somehow).  

So, when John asked him about his birthday, he simply refused to answer. It was allowed, wasn’t it? After all, it wasn’t any of the doctor’s business – and John was being so unreasonably stubborn about withholding his middle name. It was the same, wasn’t it? Random personal information? So there, payback is a bitch. Well, Sherlock should have considered the means he was ready to employ to discover a tiny bit of info about his flatmate and not underestimate the doctor’s curiosity.

Actually, both dwellers of 221B ultimately solved their problem the same way – through Mycroft (who do you think got Sherlock his flatmate’s birthday certificate?).  Of course, it was way less troublesome for the elder Holmes to give John what he wanted, but he felt the need to accompany it with a warning. “My little brother has chosen to not celebrate his birthdays in over a decade, and I can’t say he was much fond of it even before. So thread wisely.”      

John nodded, of course, but this was not the time Mycroft would have managed to warn him off his plans. Anyone deserved a bit of a treat on their birthday. And Sherlock, given the crap he put up with from so many people (looking at you, Donovan) – though thank God he gave just as much back – deserved it perhaps more than others.

 So when the fateful day came around, he enlisted Mrs. Hudson’s cooperation – the old, motherly woman was more than happy to help – to make it beautiful from the start (and hopefully every second since). When Sherlock woke up, it was to the smell of coffee and something heavenly.  

“Crepes with Orange blossom honey, courtesy of our not-housekeeper,” the doctor announced to the still sleepy, sheet-clad detective. “And this,” he added, handing his adorably cute flatmate a mug. Not that he could tell his friend as much – he didn’t want to cause a snit today of all days.

 “Not my usual coffee,” the sleuth remarked. As much as he loved tea, he couldn’t ever properly wake up without a coffee.

 “Experiment,” John replied with a smile. He’d found the recipe online – Marocchino, an (unsurprisingly Italian) coffee variation that included cocoa powder and milk froth. It looked properly festive. The doctor had even bought a tiny battery powered milk frother for the occasion – decorated with the Union Jack, so it matched the cushion. “I’m pretty sure you’ll remember today even if you drink it.” 

Sherlock grinned back, and given the sound that left his lips after the first sip, John would have to repeat this experiment often in the future. And for once, he didn’t try to beg off breakfast with just a coffee. God bless Mrs. Hudson – she was a fantastic cook.  

After they’d polished everything off (of course the doctor couldn’t resist Mrs. Hudson’s cooking either), the doctor mentioned airily, “You’ve got a package.” He wondered if his friend would acknowledge what it was. A gift obviously, coming from his parents – he’d checked the sender; he didn’t want to hand over a bomb from a vengeful criminal, after all. But the sleuth only took it and brought it to his room.  

“Won’t you open it?” John asked.  

“Oh, I know what it is,” his friend replied.

 “Of course you deduced it,” the doctor remarked, with a fond smile.  

Sherlock thought about admitting that he knew because his mother always sent the same gift, but he didn’t want to lose the warm admiration John was sending his way, so he kept that detail quiet. He could have deduced it if he had to, he told himself in justification. As it was, Mummy knew that his work ruined his clothes more often than not and she always sent some sort of replacement – mostly shirts.

 For that, she used her son’s measurements from the last time he’d been home for any length of time – a few years ago, to be honest. He’d been tempted to inform her that he’d taken a little bit of weight since then. Not using cocaine as heavily and living with John, who insisted on making him eat semi-regularly, would do that to anyone. But as long as his buttons closed he wouldn’t. If he admitted that to Mummy he wouldn’t have the high ground to tease Mycroft about his weight anymore, and that was simply too entertaining to pass.   

Almost as if evoked by the thought, his brother let himself in. Sherlock grimaced. Usually, Mycroft would call – of course he would, he was far too traditional to respect his wishes and ignore the day entirely – but not make a bad day worse by imposing his presence on him.

“What, Mycroft?” the younger Holmes grumbled.

 “I just thought I would not have Anthea handing this over,” his brother said, holding an envelope.  

The sleuth took it and opened it – it wouldn’t do to pretend to be uninterested, the sooner they dealt with whatever it was the sooner Mycroft would go away – and could scarcely believe his own eyes. It contained two invitations to a ceremony, that same evening, where Itzhak Perlman – one of the greatest violinists alive – would play for the Queen. Again. She’d heard him during an official visit in the States and had insisted to invite him to London. And God, it would have been so great to hear him live, but…  

“I’m not spending tonight with you, brother mine. As far as I’m concerned we’ve been together too long already,” the birthday boy growled. First he accepted Mycroft’s invitation and the next thing he knew, he’d find himself unwillingly knighted. 

“You’ll notice that, contrary to the usual, there is no name written on these invitations. You can fill them with whichever name you please, though I do hope yours will be one of them, obviously. But believe me when I say that I do not long for your company either. Of course, I’ll be there – but I really don’t fancy having to handle you on top of everything else,” Mycroft bit back, massaging the bridge of his nose as if he could already feel the inevitable headache forming.  

“I’ll…consider it,” the detective caved in.  

“Later, then,” his big brother said, departing. “Happy birthday, Sherlock.”  

“This…means nothing. You weren’t supposed to know,” Sherlock huffed, irritated, looking at John as if he was really uncomfortable.  

“I already knew. I interrogated him on the matter, at that,” John admitted, with a smug grin.  

“Since he told you so easily, I’m worried about the secrets of the Commonwealth!” the sleuth remarked sarcastically.

 “Come on, Sherlock, he knew I wouldn’t hurt you with that knowledge,” the doctor objected, looking fondly at him.  

“You won’t insist on me participating to some silly celebration or something like that?” his friend queried suspiciously.

 “Knowing how much you enjoy having to be faced with a number of people? The point of a having a birthday is to make you happy, not miserable. And besides, from what I got Mycroft has already outdone whatever I might organise in the way of party,” John replied, smiling.  

“About that - are you going to come with me tonight? The music will be good, but the rest – well, the queen will be involved, so it’ll probably be very boring,” Sherlock asked, affecting disinterest.  

“If you want me to, gladly. And to amuse ourselves, you can always deduce all the other guests for me, between one piece and another. _Sotto voce_ ,” the doctor assured, stressing the last two words. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t bring you. You won’t like my violin playing anymore, after you’ve heard Perlman,” the sleuth considered, thoughtful.  

“Don’t be ridiculous. He can be a God among violinists, but I’ll always adore your playing. It’s the only clue you give me to what you’re feeling. And I love you even when you use it to annoy Mycroft, much more when you actually deign to play. Besides, I don’t understand one whit about music. I just want to be there to see you enjoy yourself. You deserve it, my dear,” John replies, with a smile so fond it melts the detective’s unacknowledged heart – just a little bit.  

“So? What did you get me?” the consulting detective asks, and there’s a little bit of a childish glee and eagerness in his eyes. “You inquired. You’re the kind of man that likes to show you care tangibly. Effect of your own childhood, obviously.”  

“Well, mine is more of a joint gift. I had to involve someone else, because you are the kind of man who’s impossible to shop for. You can afford better than anything I can buy, and you’re not even interested in anything material. I doubt you’d appreciate another scarf. But – your gift is almost coming. I timed it well, it seems,” his friend admits. 

Molly’s ringing the bell with her nose, hands full of refrigerated containers. She enters 221B like a slender, female, clean-shaven Santa, smiling at them. She is not dressed to impress, though (which makes Sherlock breath in relief). She was apparently in a hurry, because she still has her lab coat on.  “Hi, Sherlock, John. I have to get back to work, these bodies won’t dissect themselves,” she says amiably, “but John insisted you’ve had a sterling behaviour and deserve a reward, so here it is. These two hearts with aortas annexed suffering from Marfan syndrome you’d asked me – and a few fingers as a quiz from me, see if you can determine the owners’ jobs.”

 The sleuth huffs at being challenged, but dutifully replies, “Thank you, Molly. I thought these Marfan hearts weren't available.” 

“The families decided for cremation, and it’s not like they’ll notice them missing,” the pathologist quips, shrugging and blushing at the same time.This is the friend who’s never minded bending the rules for him, even when her conscience doesn’t entirely agree. “And John said you deserved them.” 

“Well, then thank you to John, too,” Sherlock says, grinning at him.  

“I really have to go now,” Molly declares. “See you soon.” With the detective, there’s little doubt of that.  The doctor will have to thank her properly later, for taking the time to come. True, she’s not doing it exactly as a favour to him – mostly, she’s jumping to the occasion to see her longstanding crush – but it was kind all the same.  

“You didn’t tell her it’s my birthday,” the consulting detective states, looking puzzled.  

“You tried to keep it a secret from me. If she doesn’t know yet, it means she didn’t go to the trouble to trace your family. Which baffles me a bit, honestly, I thought Mycroft routinely kidnapped everyone who was in regular contact with you. Or am I special?” John explains, smiling. “Anyway, she would have insisted on singing ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’ and I didn’t know how you’d react to that.”  

“Of course you’re special, John,” the consulting detective replies warmly, though he’s sure enough that his flatmate is not the only one his brother has kidnapped. Why, the first time it happened to Lestrade, he handcuffed Mycroft and almost threw him in a cell. It seems that mistaking the firstborn Holmes for a criminal mastermind is a regular assumption of Sherlock’s…friends (though he wouldn’t vocally recognise the DI as nothing more than a working acquaintance). And hes’s grateful that his friend respected his wish to keep his birthday secret – at least from people who did not earn that knowledge. But that’d be mushy, so he won’t say.

 “Can I experiment on these right now?” he asks, excited like he wasn’t since he got that model pirate ship of Blackbeard’s Queen Anne’s Revenge at his seventh birthday. 

“Of course. I promise I won’t complain, whatever happens. _If_ you come out at lunch with me,” his friend replies, teasing. At the birthday boy’s disappointed look, he quickly amends, “Fine, I won’t complain whatever you do with these either way. I’d really like for you to have lunch with me today, though. You can skip dinner if you want.” And he really shouldn’t have to barter with Sherlock this way to ensure the detective has at least one and half meal a day, but today’s point is to make him happy so concession have to be made.    

The blinding smile he receives is hint enough that he’s doing well. John is about to go to the sitting room, giving entirely free reign to the mad scientist he lives with. When he walks beside him, though, the sleuth holds his wrist with a soft, “Stay?”

 “If you want me to, sure. Do you actually need help or can I go get my computer to write up last week’s case?” the doctor queries, surprised but pleased. He takes being released as a sign that his scientific contribute to the experiment is not needed.

 Soon they’re at opposite ends of the kitchen table, John trying to think of a conveniently witty title for his post and Sherlock happily busy sectioning and examining cells on his microscope. Until now, the experiment is considerably tame for his standards. It wouldn’t surprise the doctor if acids became involved soon, but for now they’re together in silent happiness. Just enjoying what they do and each other’s company at the same time. 

Sometimes John’s eyes leave the screen to take in the focused figure of his friend. Sherlock could have made a wonderful scientist. The doctor can easily imagine him as a colleague, a researcher on rare illnesses, maybe – with his genius – finding the cure to them, and telling everyone else, “Are you idiots? It was obvious that it only needed a mix of this and that.”

His imagination makes the doctor smile fondly. Really, it had been a loss for the world when his flatmate had not pursued science – but he saved so many lives all the same (John’s included) that there is no regretting the career he has created for himself.

 John doesn’t realise that, but – as focused as he may seem – the sleuth’s eyes, too, sometimes stray from his microscope to seek him out. It’s especially when Sherlock hears that hitch in his breath that means that John’s agonising over a word choice, searching for the less dull one. His friend is often likely to unconsciously wet his lips then – for a reason the detective has yet to determine – and…well, if he wants to see that happen, it’s not bad, is it? He’s just fond of this particular mannerism of John.

Of all the mannerisms and details that make up the fascinating contradiction that is John Watson, to be honest, though he protests against some of his choices – mostly the way he hides his delightful figure under these warm…cute…but definitely not fitting enough jumpers. 

Maybe he should give John’s measurements to his mummy…just lightly skewed, like his own…and let her know how important John is to keep her son on the straight and narrow. Mycroft might have offered money (to betray Sherlock – or to babysit him? Who knows), but he’s sure that mummy would want to show her appreciation in a more personal way.         

Despite the distraction provided by his favourite doctor (and the comfort of his mostly soundless presence, if you don’t count the slow pecking at the keys – not that the consulting detective would admit to it), the hearts are really engaging. Of course, they can’t be murder-related. There’s no way to induce a genetic illness. But it could reveal unacknowledged relations, which can always hide possible motives for a crime…

And to be honest, there’s a study on it (he’s read it on one of John’s Journal) made by the Baker Heart Institute of Melbourne, so analysing them in Baker Street appeals to his more funny side. Days later, he’ll find that the fingers were from the Marfan syndrome suffering people too (there’s no mistaking the arachnodactyly) – which, considering Paganini was hypothesized to suffer from this too, is rather interesting for him. But for now, the hearts are enough to amuse him until lunch hour.

And while fasting – rather than feasting – might be his idea of a happy day, it’s certainly not John’s and he kind-of promised to go with him. John certainly deserves something back after having persuaded Molly for him. After the dreadful business on Christmas, with that accidental deduction of her crush on him, the pathologist would not be bringing gifts a mere twelve days later without his flatmate’s intervention. Of course, Sherlock is confident that he can manipulate her should he need to. But he’d need a considerable effort this close to her public humiliation.   

So, when hours later John asks, “What are you in the mood for, today?” with a bright smile, instead of once again trying to be difficult, Sherlock replies, “Italian.” The sleuth very carefully doesn’t say it has more to do with Angelo always insisting they are a proper couple (you know what they say, repeat a lie enough times and maybe people will start believing it) than with the admittedly great cuisine.  

John smiles again, clearly pleased with the choice, and they head to their favourite restaurant (neither has forgotten that first embarrassing but thrilling stakeout). And this time, the doctor does not offer even his customary token of protest to the candle Angelo perserveres in bringing to their table.

The conversation is much less awkward now than that memorable first time, mostly John asking – sotto voce – about Sherlock’s experiment, and if it’s going well, and Sherlock recounting excitedly his findings, and laughing when he sees a cab pass by in the street, half tempted to chase it for the fun of it.  

John insists that Sherlock has to pick a dessert, as it is his birthday, and the sleuth immediately replies, “Not cake,” making a face – he’s undoubtedly thinking of Mycroft.  

“Not a cake, if you don’t want, of course,” John agrees immediately, and they settle on tiramisu, which they share like very good friends (or maybe boyfriends) – while the restaurant owner looks over them (covertly, he thinks) with a half-happy half-benedictory grin. 

“Let’s give him something to puzzle over,” the doctor proposes, a playful grin on his face, “you might not have a traditional cake, but we have at least a candle, so…close your eyes, blow it out and make a wish.” 

It might be silly, but anything John suggests, Sherlock is glad to go along with (at least if it doesn’t entail dull things like doing the shopping). With this, illogical as it might be, he’s particularly happy to comply. _I wish John will be with me until the day I die,_ he thinks, and it’s selfish, and unrealistic, and silly, but he’s not going to have to admit it – wishes never come true if they’re revealed – and he’s allowed to be silly. After all, it’s his birthday. He can wish whatever he wants. 

John wants to know what his friend wished for, it’s obvious, but he wants more for Sherlock’s wishes to come true – all of them – and so restrains his curiosity. “So? What do you want to do now? More experiments? Or something else?” he asks, smiling.They have a few hours to fill until they have to go to Mycroft’s – sorry, the Queen’s  - concert, and he just wants Sherlock to be happy today.  

“Something else. After all, these materials are precious – I want them to last me a bit,” the sleuth admits, shrugging. “Any suggestions?”  

“Not really. I’m open to whatever makes you happy,” the doctor says honestly. 

“Can we just take a stroll? I’ve been still all morning,” Sherlock asks, uncharacteristically polite – but he wants John’s company more than he wants to walk, so if he’s tired he’s ready to retire back home.  

But John says, “Sure,” and follows him despite the bitter cold of January, and they wander aimlessly. John recognises some street art as undoubtedly Raz’s style, and now can laugh at his own mishap during the blind banker – Mycroft anyway ensured that the ASBO magically disappeared. That was why Sherlock was so supremely unconcerned. But how could at the time his flatmate know that the was included in the Holmes version of diplomatic immunity? 

They somehow end up to Regent’s Park, and when they arrive in front of the zoo, John asks what is Sherlock’s favourite animal. “I’ve recently discovered some interesting trivia about bees,” the sleuth replies, with a grin. “But anyway, aren’t all the interesting animals hibernating in winter?”  

“I’m pretty sure large cats are not,” the doctor replies. “And I’m sure my favourite aren’t.” 

“Your favourites?” the detective asks, suddenly interested – John trivia is worthy so much more than bee trivia.  

“The otters,” his friend reveals. He won’t say why. If Sherlock cannot see the likeness for himself, there’s no reason to mention it and let him think he’s teasing. “They’re so cuddly.” 

“Like you,” the sleuth replies, nodding, as if that makes perfectly sense. “Then let’s go greet them.”  

John holds in the chuckle at his friend’s wrong assumption. Of course, the consulting detective would take offense at being termed ‘cuddly’, but John has evidence that he can be, when he’s in a good mood. Sometimes John is just sitting on the sofa, watching crap tv, and Sherlock will join him and then just…unfurl until John has a lap full of whatever extremity his friend chose to trap him with. 

When it’s the sleuth’s head ending up on his lap, the doctor always has the hardest time keeping himself from just carding his fingers through the riotous curls. (One day or another he’ll do so, and discover if they’re as soft as they look).  

So when they go meet the otters, and find them all lying in a big, furry heap of contentment, both men smile. And John can’t help but mention a trivia, “Most otters are solitary creatures, actually. But not these ones. Maybe because they’re the smallest species.” He’s sometimes wondered if his friend is like one of these cuties would be, if they pretended to be one of the other, bigger, I don’t need anyone otters. Maybe he’s just been mislabelled.  

When one of the otters actually leaves the others to come with a curious, half expectant look towards them, the sleuth asks, “Do you come often? Do you think she recognised you?”  

“Not that often. Honestly, I think that she’s just curious.”

 “How do you know she’s a she? They all look the same,” the detective queries, expecting his friend’s to have superior knowledge in this as well as many other matters.  

“I just…assumed. I’m not an expert in otter biology. She just…felt like one,” John admits, shrugging.  

Sherlock almost rolls his eyes. Trust John Watson to assume that every creature showing any sort of interest in him must be of the female ilk. “Let’s get back home. We need to get ready for tonight’s event – and I need to check that you have anything decent to dress in. You can’t go to the Queen’s event in a jumper,” he prompts. Before John decides to try to seduce the otter too. (Now, now, Sherlock knows he’s exaggerating, but sometimes his friend feels incorrigible. The otter is really cute, though.) 

“I do have a proper suit, you know,” John assures, smiling.  

“Then why do you never use it?” the sleuth quips, genuinely puzzled. John is always beautiful, but smartly dressed the sleuth is sure he would be breathtaking.  

“What would I wear tonight if I used it everyday?” the doctor replies, logically. Really, Sherlock has to understand not everyone can buy their wardrobe in Savile Row. 

It ends up that John’s formal wear is not appropriate for an event the Queen will take part to, but they shouldn’t worry, because Mycroft, being his usual, unbearably meddlesome self, has left to Mr. Hudson – with orders to bring them up while the boys are out – the required clothes. For the both of them, which makes him just interfering and not snobbishly humiliating towards John’s background, and allows the doctor to accept the gift. Or loan, as he prefers to think it as.  John can’t help but wonder what’s wrong with Sherlock’s clothes – unless it is their tendency to be just a bit too tight. 

The sleuth lets his friend have first shower, simply because that way he can enjoy the sight of John all wet and in a bathrobe when he leaves the bathroom, and that might be the best gift of today. (He doesn’t stare, of course he doesn’t. He just…observes – and thank God that he’s trained to be quick about it.) 

The detective takes a bit of extra time preparing to beat his curls into submission, both because he doesn’t want to imagine what Mycroft would have to say if he was the slightest bit unkempt and because John is going to be a vision and he can’t cut a poor figure next to him. 

Mycroft sends a car, too, and John gets in before Sherlock can refuse it – out of spite, of course, nothing else – so the sleuth follows him onboard. He really must train this reflex of John out of him. They lead a dangerous life – his partner can’t just get in any black car that slows down near him. He tells John as much, too, and his friend actually laughs because – who’d use such a posh car to kidnap him?  

“Well, some criminals have class,” the detective points out. Just look at Moriarty’s Westwood – and he’s kidnapped John once already. They must absolutely avoid an encore of that.  

“I can take care of myself, Sherlock. I was a soldier, remember?” John reminds him, smiling. “Actually, I’m more worried about what’s happening soon than about kidnappings.”  

“Relax, John. You’ll be brilliant,” Sherlock assures. After all, they’re going to a concert. That’ll stop the need for conversation for most of the time. In the intervals…Sherlock does not doubt that his companion will attract many admiring looks. As long as his friend doesn’t try to chat someone up, the sleuth is perfectly content to let the people look – and envy.

 The concert turns up to be everything Sherlock hoped for – and more. The music is otherworldly, and John – while he loves it, of course – can’t help but look in the half-light at his friend’s profile, absolutely rapt in the flow of the notes. This is it – Sherlock is in heaven, and that means that the day was a success. John will have to thank Mycroft somehow. Because if they have one thing in common is wanting to make the younger Holmes happy.  

Indeed, at the interval his friend turns to John and – sotto voce, as he’d been bid – starts deducing the other presents. The doctor starts giggling softly, and the consulting detective graces him with a smug smile and a “Thank you for being here, John.”  

“My pleasure,” John replies, thinking that with all he knows now about the Peers of the Kingdom he could retire and – like the late Irene Adler – live in luxury through blackmail. Lucky for them that neither Sherlock nor he have it in themselves to be blackmailers. 

Soon the concert restarts, and they fall quiet again. Anything else would be blasphemy. But it’s at the end of it that the most shocking, wonderful, great event of the day happens. Sherlock – for once – is fidgeting, unsure, because he very much wants to talk with Perlman, maybe get his autograph, but like any true fanboy the idea of accosting his idol is both tempting and daunting. 

 And John – John has been watching too much Doctor Who lately, specifically Eleven, who is rather…which is even the word for a man who kisses often and easily, not necessarily romantically but in a “you’re amazing” sense?     

That’s the reason why, when he sees Sherlock take a step towards the retreating violinist and hesitate, John gives his best friend a quick peck on the lips – and then pushes him lightly between the shoulder, with a smiling, “Go and get him, Sherlock”. 

It seems that is counterproductive, though, because the detective seems to slip in a sort of coma and oscillates perilously – so much that John automatically helps keep him steady. 

When the detective takes in a great sigh of a breath (did he stop breathing too?), three minutes later, he asks quietly, “Why?” 

“Too much Eleventh Doctor,” John replies honestly, “and you do have rather kissable lips. I dreamed of this way too long.”  

That, at least, makes Sherlock forget his earlier shyness and run away – to the genius violinist (and possibly Mycroft afterwards) for not only an autograph but relationship advice. 

It turns out that Perlman reads John’s blog (is everyone a follower?) and he’s as happy to meet the world’s only consulting detective as Sherlock is to meat a God of violin-playing. As for relationship advice, whatever makes you happy. Believe me – it could have been are the saddest words in the world.” 

As for Mycroft, he’s undoubtedly entertaining boring people – and after all, Sherlock knows what he would say. What he’s said all his life. Maybe it’s time to follow his idol’s suggestion. Get back to John – and be happy.                                              


End file.
